What might have been a ravishing remake, lit by some of the most sumptuous cinematography in recent memory, instead goes off the rails almost from the start.

Make no mistake, Kenneth Branagh’s lavish adaptation of the Agatha Christie classic is dressed to the nines, from the stunning period costumes to the spectacular scenery of the snow-capped Alps. Alas, the lackluster performances and stilted direction falls far short of the visuals (cinematography by Haris Zambarloukos). This lumbering and belabored “Orient Express” spins its wheels until it loses all steam.

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Branagh, for his part, makes a strangely melancholy Hercule Poirot, the iconic Belgian detective whose little gray cells crave the agitation of a whodunit. The classically trained actor is as thoughtful as ever but he lacks the quirky specificity that marked David Suchet’s indelible take on the role. The backstories inserted here, such as suggesting that Poirot suffers from something like Asperger’s syndrome, aren’t compelling. He also has a rather Chewbacca-esque mustache that seems poised to devour his face.

But the true failing in this movie is the utter lack of pacing and suspense. Though the film is studded with shining stars, from the venerable (Dame Judi Dench) to the emerging (Daisy Ridley), there are very few memorable moments bracketed by endless flat patches. In terms of goose bumps and gasps, it’s a train wreck. There’s no delicious sense of mounting tension as the mystery unravels.

Michelle Pfeiffer does cast a few sparks, slinking about the cabin encased in skintight gowns and steeped in booze as the merry widow Mrs. Hubbard. She saves more scenes than you would have thought possible with her brassy strutting. Derek Jacobi also leaves an indelible mark on his small turn as the dead man’s valet.

But the rest of the actors mostly go through the motions. Ridley barely registers as the ingenue governess Mary. The same fate befalls Josh Gad as the often-sauced secretary and Leslie Odom Jr. as the doctor.

Johnny Depp doesn’t seem to know what to do if he can’t go Captain Jack on a part. His turn as the mafia-connected brute Ratchett feels so wooden it’s a shame.

Even the redoubtable Dench, as the imperious Russian princess, and the usually appealing Olivia Coleman (“Broadchurch”) as her long suffering maid, feel wasted here.

Judi Dench, left, and Olivia Colman in “Murder on the Orient Express.” (Nicola Dove/Twentieth Century Fox)

Overall this old school picture simply doesn’t deliver on its juicy promises. If there was more suspense, the film might have transported us away from our mundane age and into the glamorous era of the famed train’s heyday.

The plot is as juicy as ever. Stranded in the snow, embroiled in a bloody murder plot, these strangers on a train must bare their darkest secrets for Europe’s most famous private eye.

Unfortunately, Branagh’s weakness for fussy tracking shots or overhead filming only heightens the picture’s static feel. At times the viewer feels as stuck as the train.

Christie purists may also take umbrage at the changes made to the plot, including some heightened racial overtones. That wouldn’t matter to me if the tension hadn’t died before the murder victim.

If you are new to pleasures of Poirot, I won’t reveal the Last Supper-style ending but suffice to say that in this version, the only thing that doesn’t feel anti-climactic is the scenery. As for this reviewer’s little gray cells, they almost fell asleep.

Karen D'Souza is the theater critic for the Mercury News and the Bay Area News Group papers. She is a three-time Pulitzer juror, a former USC/Getty Arts Journalism Fellow and a longtime member of the Glickman Drama Jury and the American Theatre Critics Association. She has a Master's Degree in Journalism from UC Berkeley. She is a Twitter addict (@KarenDSouza4), a fangirl and a mommy and her writings have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Miami Herald, the San Francisco Chronicle and American Theatre Magazine.